


the color white

by brutalend



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst, M/M, crestless sylvain AU, sylvix - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-19
Updated: 2020-03-19
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:59:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23221345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brutalend/pseuds/brutalend
Summary: Short vignette inspired by @vwyn19's "crestless Sylvain" AU, because I am obsessed with the concept and I love color analysis.In the AU, Sylvain was born without a crest, then experimented on and given one. His hair turned white as a result and his lifespan was shortened . (Like a couple characters in canon.)
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 1
Kudos: 63





	the color white

In heraldry, the color white depicts peace and purity.

The metaphor is simple, really: snow falls and settles over the earth like a blanket. It rests there, untouched, to reflect the glaring sun. It glitters. It gleams. It’s so beautiful, all that smooth and endless white, that your eyes hurt just looking at it. The white _hurts_. So you’re forced to look away.

“It’s been a while,” Sylvain supplies cheerfully, running a hand through the loose waves of his hair. They can see their breath in the cold. “Did you miss me?”

Felix looks away. It _hurts_.

“We all did.”

That’s how peace is maintained.

  
  


It’s on trees, too. Every branch is diamond-encrusted, worth millions to the human eye. Veins of ice spider-web across glass window panes. As the temperature drops, humans begin to subconsciously calculate the value of their surroundings. What is worth their gold? Who is worth their time?

Winter is long, but life is short. They have to spend it right.

Everyone sits by the crackling fireplace. Sylvain is up on his feet dramatically standing in front of the small audience of his closest friends.

“Look, all I’m saying is that the painting looked like a masterpiece last night.”

“Last night?” Ingrid is gesturing toward the monstrosity resting against the wall and she’s doubled over with laughter. “Last night you were so drunk, you could barely pronounce your own name.”

“Hey, sometimes that’s hard when I’m sober. Anyway,” Sylvain is examining the objectively terrible work of art he purchased at a ludicrously high price. “I think it has charm. There’s profound meaning behind the, uh, juxtaposition of primary color. And this giant red blob in the middle sort of looks like a horse, right?”

Everyone unravels. Mercedes has a hand raised to her mouth. Dedue’s eyes are wrinkled at the corners. Annette and Ashe are howling. Dimitri’s eyes shine with joyful tears.

Peace is an ugly painting, the warmth of fire, the company of friends.

Peace is counting down: maybe 2 more years.

Felix looks away.

  
  


Humans are fickle.

They hate winter all season long until the snow starts to melt, then it’s still cold and miserable but the glaring sun falls on nothing that glitters. Nothing white. Nothing pure.

They want the snow back. They want more time.

Dimitri is saying amiably, “They claim spring is a time of new beginnings. Of life returning to the barren earth. Where flowers bloom, so does hope.”

Outside the earth is muddy and the branches are bare. Felix does not see any life returning at all. Silence stretches between them as they gaze out the window.

Dimitri’s mouth is set in a firm line but his voice begins to crack like ice. He speaks because he knows Felix cannot: “I, too, will miss the snow.”

  
  


As a child, Felix loved the snow. He would crash through it. He would throw his entire body onto its perfect surface. He would shove handfuls of it in his mouth and let it melt on his tongue.

Now, Felix stops sparring to stare at Sylvain. Their chests are heaving from the exertion. Sweat makes Sylvain’s hair stick to his forehead.

He grins impishly. “Are you waiting for me to say something? 'Cause I got nothing.”

Felix can’t control what happens next.

“Shut _up_!” he’s snarling. He’s so angry. He _hurts_.

And he crashes into Sylvain. He grabs fistfuls of his snow-white hair. He feels his tongue melting in Sylvain’s mouth as Sylvain kisses him back with purpose.

That’s where the metaphor crumbles: Felix realizes Sylvain isn’t snow. He was never snow. He is roses, blood, and sunsets.

He is fire. He is heat.

He was always, always _red_.

  
  


This time, the metaphor is stale.

The infirmary is clean and sterile. It’s nearly empty during this time of peace. White sheets and white walls and on a white pillow, his head rests.

“What’s up, Fe.”

His voice is so casual. So warm. Like Felix’s entire world hasn’t frozen over in his absence.

“Sylvain.”

Felix’s voice is hollow. He would mask it with anger if he could, but he doesn’t have any left.

Sylvain reaches for Felix’s hand. Felix lets him take it and pull him toward the infirmary bed, closing the distance between them. Up close, Felix can see the dark circles under his eyes, still warm and honey brown.

When the seasons change, so too does the length of each day: sunlight lost so early, each night growing darker and longer and colder. Felix is watching the season change in front of him. Felix is watching the Earth tilt away from the sun. Felix is watching light succumb to darkness.

He leans down and kisses Sylvain to savor the last taste of summer.

  
  


Eventually, he watches the first snowfall.

Soft. Silent. Sacred.

It makes no sound as it touches every surface of the earth, veiling it in pure white.

When the sun sets red, Felix is undone.

He doesn’t look away.


End file.
